


Dress Uniform Blues

by Wheat From Chaff (wheatfromchaff)



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Angst, Control Issues, Excessive Drinking, Extramarital Affairs, Inappropriate use of Marine uniforms, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Recreational Drug Use, Some Humor, Strip Tease, honestly these two......., minor sexual roleplay, one guy steps on another guy's chest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-07
Updated: 2018-06-07
Packaged: 2019-05-19 04:09:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14866329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wheatfromchaff/pseuds/Wheat%20From%20Chaff
Summary: There were rules. Of course there were. People didn’t get to just put their hands on Billy Russo as they pleased. Not anymore.--Billy and Frank attend a general's retirement party. They retreat to their room to get stoned and Billy decides to put on a little show.





	Dress Uniform Blues

**Author's Note:**

> Some content warning at the top for some minor homophobic and misogynistic language. No slurs are used but ymmv. Also, at one point, someone drinks so much they puke.
> 
> Long story short, I wanted to see Billy step on Frank. i'm a writer so i can make that happen!! unbeta'd so i apologise for the typos/errors you might find!
> 
> special s/o to jun and lego for ruining my life with this picture http://lelelego.tumblr.com/post/174572259822/happier-times-commission-for-ssealdog-my

Frank never felt comfortable in his dress blues.

Part of it was the uniform itself—the polyester blend jacket that was meant for all-weather wear either baked him alive in the spring and summer or left him chilled in the winter. (But never quite cold—something about Frank’s build, his musculature, meant that he burned like an oven, even when he wore nothing at all. Something Maria and Billy both complained about.) The way the stiff fabric felt against his skin, thick enough to stifle.

Another part were the circumstances that demanded its wear.

Frank felt more comfortable in his fatigues, in the kind of situations that required him to wear fatigues. Running drills, cleaning the camp or his weapon, working on repairs, the general mindless, busy-work they were prescribed to keep them too occupied to think about anything. He liked losing himself in that kind of work. He liked the quiet. There was never enough quiet.

There was no quiet at all on a night like this. General Grange’s retirement party. They’d rented out an off-base hotel ballroom for the occasion. White linen, round tables, hand-written seating assignments, silverware and three different kinds of glasses (white wine, red wine, and water, Billy helpfully informed Frank—as if Frank had been raised in a fucking barn), speeches at a podium, and a very traditional, three-course catered meal. Frank had the steak. Boiled vegetables, roast potatoes, garden salad, and buttered rolls.

Frank had surrendered his roll to the hungry, skinny jackass seated on his right because he’d done his usual and polished off his meal before the rest of them had finished their salad. Eating like he was afraid someone would take it away from him.

(Always. At camp, on the base. Even at home, at Maria’s table. No matter how polished he made himself, no matter how much he whitened his teeth, or how much expensive cologne he splashed on, or how many expensive pairs of designer jeans he bought, no matter how civilized he presented himself, this was the one bad habit he couldn’t seem to shake. Billy ate like he was starving. Frank always had too much food on his plate anyway.)

Frank didn’t know why he was here. General Grange had always been a pale, indistinct face in Frank’s memory, an image of an authority figure he’d only ever seen from fifty plus feet away. He knew the voice because he’d heard it booming from a set of speakers. General Grange was more sound than man.

Frank didn’t miss much about being a lowly private, but he missed being left off the guest list for events like these. The silver bars on his collar had changed all that and now he kept finding himself in the awkward position of standing around, talking to the wives of his superior officers while they drank down bottles of after-dinner wine.

God, the wives. They clocked him as soon as he’d walked through the door. He recognized a few by name—and a few more from the stories he and the others would swap when they were out of their C.O.’s earshot. The wives loved him. They smiled at him, lips painted red or magenta or a tasteful rose, depending on their age. Fluttered their lashes. Touched his arm and marvelled at the swell of his bicep.

“What a big boy you are,” one of them said, eyeing him appreciatively. His ears burned as they laughed.

He never knew what to say to these women. Being too smooth felt like courting danger, like he was trying to lead them on. Being too rude would sour them on him and they might spread that back to their husbands. Either way, he risked trouble with a superior.

He stuck to his usual tactics; smiled, kept his answers brief but honest, and kept to safe topics. Bland shit. The weather. The quality of his steak. Dealing with jetlag. How nice it was to be out of the sun, in an air-conditioned ballroom.

He did not talk about how much he hated his fucking dress uniform. Hated the gloves that hid his wedding band and made the simple action of holding a glass of wine feel clumsy. He hated how the stiff neck of his jacket made his throat itch. He ran his finger under his collar, but it just brought another rub of polyester against sensitive skin that wasn’t used to it.

“You’re so handsome,” another man’s wife said to him. “How do you stay so fit? Rob never looked that good in uniform.”

He _hated_ this. He hated to think about the times Maria might’ve talked to someone like this. She only ever did when she was pissed at him. Got tipsy and laughed too hard at another man’s jokes. Smiled at him and touched his arm until he turned pink. It always made him feel rotten.

“Tell us about your wife, Lieutenant,” another wife—Glenys, he’d caught her name when she’d given it—said, cutting the first woman a look.

Normally, Frank would be happy to talk about Maria, hold her and the kids up like crosses against a hoard of vampires, but he couldn’t summon the enthusiasm. The memory of his last face-to-face talk with her felt like a stone trapped in his throat.

It’d been the usual, which hurt. They’d exchanged news. Maria told him about Lisa’s class trip to the zoo. Her new favourite animal was a tiger. Junior’s adventures in pre-k. Held up the pictures he’d drawn. He used to draw guns but his teachers had gently discouraged that. Now he drew bugs. He was good at it, too. He’d invented his own bug, a scorpion with a ka-bar stinger.

That was how she started, every time. He didn’t like to think she did it on purpose, but the kids and the reminders of everything he was missing were the perfect way under his defenses. He must’ve looked weepy—everyone knew he had a soft, bleeding heart—because she just looked at him for a long time and then she started in on him.

She pulled out the usual knives. She was lonely. He was far away. The kids missed him. They needed him. She needed him. Didn’t he miss them? Why couldn’t he come home?

Flawless. A perfect attack, stab after stab, aimed right at the softest parts of him. And not her first time, either. She knew him so well.

Frank’s hackles came up before he could stop them. He started in with his usual counters. This was his job. They needed his money. They needed his benefits, his security. Lisa might need braces one day. Junior might need glasses.

(When Frank was a younger man, he’d argue that his country needed him, but he’d seen too much of war since.)

And who was gonna pay for that? Huh? For the mortgage of their nice house in Bayside, the one that Maria had fallen in love with and just _had_ to have, even though it had been out of their budget? Was _she_ going to get a job? With her resume? Working the fragrance counter at Macy’s back in ‘03 wasn’t the kind of job experience that’d get her into a 9 to 5, $45k salary with health insurance and PTO.

And then her lovely face turned red and her lips pulled back and it was over. They weren’t a married couple but two people in a sinking ship, out for each other’s throats.

Billy found him afterwards, seated cross-legged on the stiff hotel mattress, breathing hard and staring red-faced at a blank laptop screen. He swept a cool gaze over Frank, over the computer, and then turned away.

“Come on,” he said, slapping Frank’s shoulder lightly on his way to their little washroom. “Get your shit together. Party starts in fifteen.”

Frank made himself relax, a whistling breath pushed out of his nose, unclenching his fingers. “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled, swinging his legs off the side. “How’m I supposed to get ready if you’re camping out in the washroom?”

“Figure it out,” Billy said as he peered at his reflection.

“You take forever,” Frank griped, pulling the dry cleaner’s paper off of his jacket. “Longer than any girl I ever met.”

“So, that’ll be your wife and your ma, then? Quit complainin’. You can’t rush art, Frankie-boy,” Billy said. Without even looking, Frank knew he was smiling.

“I have a daughter, too,” Frank said without heat. It worked better than any breathing exercise Frank had ever learned. The sound of Billy’s purring voice always put him at ease.

Back in the present, Frank took a long drink. He’d meant to give a proper answer, but Glenys had laughed before he could.

“One of those, eh?” she said. The other one, the one who kept finding excuses to touch Frank’s arm, giggled and drank with him.

Without really thinking about why, Frank searched the crowd. It didn’t take him long to find who he was looking for.

Even in surrounded by people, Billy stood out. He was so fucking tall.

Frank wasn’t stupid, even if he was bashful. He knew the reason the wives and daughters at these events flocked to him was because of how well he filled out his uniform, even if it never felt right on him. People didn’t notice the little things that bothered him. They didn’t see the loose threads at his sleeves, or the way the slacks folded improperly over his boots. They didn’t see that those same boots hadn’t been polished to a perfect shine. They didn’t see the ring of pink, irritated skin around his neck, peeking just above his collar, or the beading sweat between his shoulder blades and under the rim of his hat.

They saw the uniform. The shiny buttons and the blue fabric. They saw his shoulders and his chest, the silver bars, the line of ribbons pinned to his breast. The first time Maria had seen him in his white and blues, she’d looked him up and down, like he was a cool glass of water and she’d been wandering the desert for days. She’d been the one who insisted he wear it for their wedding.

Anyone looked good in the damn blues. Even the little punks fresh from Quantico with razor burn on their necks and spots on their chin looked good.

But Billy… Billy looked better than good. He looked like a walking, talking recruitment poster.

He’d gotten his suit properly tailored (more than once he’d lamented to Frank that he had to get damn near everything tailored because he was so tall and skinny; what a hardship) which had left him looking better than almost everyone else in the room. Better than their major. Maybe better than the general himself, who’d spilled coffee on his jacket during desert.

As if he knew Frank was looking, Billy caught his eye over the heads of his sea of admirers. He winked.

It was like touching a doorknob after rubbing his feet over carpet. Frank felt the jolt right down to his heels. And behind it came a tide of warmth, like standing downwind of a forest fire.

“Look at the way he blushes,” the drunk wife enthused. “He’s so darling.” Cooing over Frank as if he were a puppy in a pet shop.

It took ages but Frank was able to pry their grip loose and escape. By the time he was able to cross the room without getting accosted by drunk women, Billy had gone missing.

Frank’s stomach twisted. He’d known it was a possibility. Every time they got away from camp like this, thrown to the public, there was a good chance Billy might end up following someone else home for the night. Or maybe just for a couple hours.

Frank knew he had no right to feel disappointed. They hadn’t talked about it—they never talked about it. It just… happened. Frank had just assumed Billy would’ve wanted to take advantage of their room, with its door that closed and locked, a real bed with a real mattress, and no one else around to hear them. But really Frank’s should’ve known better than to think he could pin Billy down. Everyone knew Billy Russo did what he wanted.

Frank could still escape. Maybe try Skyping Maria again, see if she was in a better mood. (And didn’t that just say something, about how easily Frank could flip from thinking about fucking his mistress to calling his wife? But he never thought about it like that, truly. Over there was over there and over here was over here. If he slowed down, even for a second, and let that guilt catch up to him, it would eat him alive.)

He snagged a last drink, made a last round to catch up to his buddies. One of them told him that he hadn’t seen Billy for a while. Frank hadn’t even asked. People just knew.

It was easier to breathe out in the lobby, but Frank still missed the taste of heat in the air. What did it say about Frank that he could breathe easier in the desert, under the baking sun, in the shadow of mountain ranges like broken teeth, than he could in a nice hotel ballroom. That he felt more at ease with a rifle on his back and a pistol at his hip than he did forcing small talk with civilians. He didn’t spend much time thinking on it. The path that line of consideration took him down was paved with trouble.

He unbuttoned his jacket from his neck to his navel. He exhaled through pursed lips, a whoosh of breath that caught the attention of the young woman standing at the bank of elevators. She glanced over and then gave him another longer, more considering look that he pretended not to see.

Frank probably could’ve taken someone back to their room. Fuck, if he was being honest with himself, there was no ‘probably’ about it. He could’ve talked that one woman into a quickie behind the hotel. Taken her to the alley where all the waiters went for their smoke breaks and talked her onto her knees for him. It wasn’t boasting—it didn’t feel like boasting. It was just the truth.

But he never did. He could never bring himself to cheat on Maria.

(The thing with Billy—it wasn’t cheating, exactly. It didn’t feel like cheating. Frank had seen guys step out on their wives before; practically everyone he’d ever served with had done it at least once. Most of the time, it wasn’t serious. Just filling a need. But Frank had overheard more than one guy lament the fact that he’d gone ahead and fallen for someone he hadn’t sworn a vow to. They always talked about how hard it was to love two people. Like carving their hearts in half.

Frank didn’t understand that at all. It didn’t feel like that.)

The elevator doors parted and Frank stepped out into the hall. He heard muffled groaning from behind closed doors. He rubbed his nose and hurried past. What time was it in New York? Maria might still be awake. She’d probably be drunk, if she was. Miserably making her way through a bottle of shiraz was part of her usual post-fight routine.

The elevators dinged again behind him and he heard someone wish someone else a goodnight.

“Frank- _ie_! There you are.”

Frank turned. Billy strode towards him, cheeks flushed and grinning.

“Here I am,” Frank said, eyeing him.

Billy was just as buttoned up as Frank had last seen him. Still wearing his hat and gloves, too. A hank of dark hair had fallen loose from the brim and slipped onto his forehead.

“I been lookin’ everywhere for you,” Billy said, catching up to him.

Frank huffed. “The fuck are you talkin’ about? You’re the one who went missing,” he said. “So, who was it this time? You better hope she wasn’t a general’s daughter or trophy wife or something. I’m not covering your ass if you get court-martialled.”

Billy gave him a funny look. “What? Come on, let’s go back to our room. I got somethin’ special for ya.” He clapped Frank on the shoulder and breezed past.

Frank huffed again, annoyed and relieved, feeling like a dog who’d been made to wait too long for his master to come home.

“I can’t believe you made me run around this whole hotel lookin’ for you,” Billy said once the door clicked shut behind them. He flicked on a lamp and sat down on the edge of the mattress.

They’d gotten twin beds, of course, but they’d had the foresight to push them together. It hadn’t even occurred to Frank to sleep any other way.

“I keep tellin’ you, I didn’t go anywhere,” Frank said as he threw his hat onto the little table beside the kettle. “I was in the ballroom, talking to Jax and the others. You’re the asshole who ran off to fuck some other man’s wife.” He yanked his tie loose from his collar and tossed it beside his hat.

Billy laughed. “Look at you, captain morality! That’s what’s gotten you so bent out of shape? You jealous, Frankie?” His black eyes gleamed.

Frank curled his upper lip, a look that could’ve turned any private white as printer paper. Billy laughed at him again.

“Take it easy, Boy Scout,” he said. He stretched out one of his long, skinny legs and knocked the tip of his polished boot against Frank’s calf. “I wasn’t fuckin’ anyone. All of those beautiful flowers downstairs remained undefiled by my dick.”

Frank made himself relax. He wasn’t angry, exactly, because that wouldn’t make sense. He had no right to be angry. No right over  Billy did with his spare time at all.

“Where’d you run off to, then?” Frank asked as he shucked off his jacket at last.

Billy leaned back onto his palms, tipped his head to the side, and grinned at Frank, his straight teeth on display.

“Guess,” he said. His hat had slipped a little over his brow.

Frank showed off his own teeth in a far less friendly gesture. Billy shook his head. He sat up, reached into his pocket.

“I went to clear my head in the alley out back, behind the kitchens. Met some new friends while I was there. Nice young men and women from the catering staff. They were havin’ a smoke and I asked if I could join ‘em. We got to talkin’ and they liked me so they gave me a present.” He held out his hand. He had something pinched between his fingers: a hand-rolled cigarette.

“Oh, Jesus Christ,” Frank muttered. “You dumb asshole. You got fucking stoned with the wait staff. No wonder you keep giggling like a school girl.” Frank sat down beside Billy, the mattress creaking under their weight. “They just gave you a joint?”

Billy shrugged. “I asked nicely.”

That’d probably do it. Frank had seen people give up more for less. God damn the pretty people.

“C’mon.” Billy licked the paper tip—a gesture Frank tracked with his gaze—and stuck it between his lips. He produced a lighter—silver with a carved rose, very nice and almost certainly not his—flicked the flint, and held the flame up to the cigarette.

Frank should’ve probably put a stop to this. By the time he even considered it, thought about anything beyond Billy’s mouth, Billy had exhaled a grey plume of smoke. The small room filled with the herbal and unmistakable scent of weed.

It wasn’t a bad smell, honestly. Before the place had smelled like carpet cleaner and a little like Billy’s cologne. Now everything mingled more pleasantly. If Frank leaned in close, he’d get a better taste of that sharp, earthy cologne. Billy was the only guy Frank knew who didn’t wear Old Spice.

Billy took another puff, tipped his head back, closed his eyes and held the inhale in the cage of his chest. Frank watched his throat, the bob of his Adam’s apple, before he breathed out another ribbon of smoke. His hat slipped back. He reached up with one gloved hand and flicked the brim, knocking it off his head.

Wordlessly, he held the joint out to Frank.

Frank hesitated.

“C’monnn,” Billy said again, the word stretching, soft and warm from his lips. “When was the last time you loosened up a little?”

“You mean get stoned? Not since high school,” Frank said.

“Jesus.” Billy laughed briefly, the sound mingled with a cough. “You’re overdue.”

Frank hadn’t really enjoyed it. He never had fun the way his friends did. But Billy, with his cheeks flushed and his body stretched out, all of him looking warm and soft to the touch… Billy made it look appealing.

As if he could hear his thoughts, Billy leaned close, giving Frank a whiff of his cologne. Frank swallowed.

“Relax,” Billy said. “A little weed won’t hurt ya. You could stand to unwind a little.”

Frank tore his gaze from Billy’s mouth. “Is this that peer pressure they kept warnin’ me about?”

Billy smiled, slow and lazy. “Sure is.”

Frank’s gaze sank again, lingering for another moment on Billy’s lips before following the line of his long neck, down to the pressed edge of his jacket. Billy was still buttoned up, looking pristine and polished, good enough for a spot check. If the major should throw open the door right at that moment, Billy would still probably pass muster. Only the gloss of his eyes, and his wide, blown pupils would’ve given him away. But no one would’ve seen that unless they got as close as Frank.

Frank took the joint from Billy’s fingers. Billy touched the tip of his tongue to his upper lip and grinned wider.

The first inhale hit the back of Frank’s throat like a crest of fire, making it heave and spasm. Smoke and the taste of ash filled his sinuses, making his eyes water. His chest shook as he managed to turn his fit into a few tough, very manly coughs. Billy laughed at him anyway.

“Shut up,” Frank said, blinking the tears from his eyes. “I haven’t smoked anything in fuckin’... fifteen years?”

“You’re such a fuckin’ dad,” Billy said. “You don’t smoke, you barely drink, you don’t do drugs…”

“I didn’t really do a lot of drugs even before I had kids,” Frank said.

“You used to be cool,” Billy lamented, going on as if Frank hadn’t said anything. “All those stories about your teen years, or when you first enlisted… Goin’ on benders ‘til dawn, gettin’ into fist fights with bikers, fuckin’ a girl and her cousin in the same night...”

Frank felt his face grow warm. He’d forgotten just how much Billy knew about him; the things he’d admitted, almost sheepishly, just because Billy liked listening to him talk. Frank fiddled with the buttons of his shirt while he took his second hit. It went down more smoothly, although his throat still twitched.

“I wish I’d known you back then,” Billy said, almost too quiet to be heard.

Frank knew more than a few things about Billy’s past. Stories told almost casually about group homes with eleven kids and a pecking order so fierce and regimented it made the barracks look like a kindergarten. Stories about foster dads blowing their government cheques on booze while Billy went to bed with an empty, aching stomach. Foster moms turned holy terrors, whipping the love of Christ into their charges. An ugly scar on his right shoulder.

Frank passed the joint back. He would’ve liked to have known Billy back then, too. He would’ve liked to have met those people who were supposed to look after Billy, just once.

“You could’ve bought me beer,” Billy went on, indulging in his fantasy. He took a short drag, paused, and breathed out, smoke like velvet rolling over his lips.

Frank laughed, cutting off quickly when the sound became a cough. “What makes you think I would’ve done that? Skinny little small fry like you? I probably would’ve bought you a Happy Meal.”

Billy lifted one shoulder. “I’d’ve sucked your dick for it.”

Frank sputtered. He rubbed his smiling mouth with the back of his hand. He felt light, felt something buzzing behind his eyes. A fuzziness, as if the smoke he’d breathed in had gone straight to his head. In a way, he supposed it had.

“Fuck,” he said, giving himself a shake.

“Feelin’ it, aren’t ya?” Billy raised his eyebrows. “Told you it was good shit.”

“This was kind of stupid,” Frank said. Billy scoffed. “What if we get tagged for a random drug test tomorrow?”

“Relax. I don’t think Schoonover would set up his golden boy like that,” Billy said. “And if he does, I’ll take care of it.” Spoken so casually, so easily, like Billy really could take care of Frank.

Frank hadn’t realised how close they’d gotten until he felt his shoulder press against Billy’s. “You will, huh?” he asked. This close, he could see the pink streaked through the whites of Billy’s eyes. “How will you do that, tough guy?”

Billy held his gaze for a moment before his lips twitched into a smile. “I’ll suck his dick.”

Frank ducked his head and laughed, even as something possessive and animalistic sparked hot in his chest.

“The fuck you will,” he said, reaching for Billy. He had his hand around the back of Billy’s neck, his thick fingers brushing the neat, straight line of his styled hair, closing the space between them, lips close enough that he could taste the smoke still lingering around Billy’s mouth—.

And then he was flat on his back, laying on the freshly cleaned carpet, the air knocked from his chest. Frank blinked at the dim ceiling and tried to orient himself.

Billy stood above him, cigarette between his lips, his expression remote, inscrutable. Frank opened his mouth, ready to demand just what the hell Billy thought he was doing, when Billy lifted his leg and carefully, thoughtfully, stepped onto Frank’s chest, the shiny tip of his boot touching Frank’s throat.

Frank tensed, jaw tightening, the muscles in his chest and shoulders bunching. He could throw Billy off, easy. He could grab Billy’s leg, push himself from the floor, use that momentum to knock Billy down. They could fight and Frank could get out on top. Billy was fast and dangerous, but he was stoned and Frank had about sixty pounds of muscle on him. Frank lifted his hand.

Billy’s eyes narrowed from behind the haze of smoke. A warning.

There was more at stake here than Frank’s pride. He could subdue Billy, sure. But that wasn’t what he wanted. That wasn’t what Billy needed from him. He relaxed.

Billy smiled.

* * *

There were rules. Of course there were. People didn’t get to just put their hands on Billy Russo as they pleased. Not anymore.

Frank knew them, or suspected he’d known them, even before they started doing whatever it was they were doing. Before Billy could spell them out for Frank.

Before that, however, came The Incident.

Maybe the event didn’t really deserve the proper capitalization. They weren’t Frank’s idea, but when he heard the other soldiers whisper about it afterwards, he couldn’t help but hear them. The Incident, like it was the title of a short story.

Frank wasn’t there to witness most of it. He was working clean-up detail in the mess tent after dinner. Standing out back, tossing a damp plastic bag of half-eaten coleslaw and stiff slices of ham into the trash. He heard the shouting, a clatter of voices crashing into each other, over each other, rendered incoherent by the sound of each other.

Incoherent but not incomprehensible. Over the others, Frank could hear Billy’s voice, pitched sharp and loud with anger—with fear.

Frank dropped the bag and ran. He didn’t think about the shit he’d catch from the C.O. later for ditching his job. He didn’t think at all, his head cleared out by the surge of adrenaline.

Billy wasn’t well-liked, Frank knew. He was admired for his pretty face, tolerated for his relationship with Frank, but there was a current of resentment under it all. More than one person had expressed the quiet opinion that Billy was an smarmy, smug, know-it-all asshole with a smart mouth. If they had any brains, they kept that opinion _very_ quiet.

Billy did have a smart mouth, honestly. Frank had watched him use it more than once to cut someone down, tongue as sharp as any of his knives. Suppose he said the wrong thing to the wrong person while Frank wasn’t around? Billy was tough, but if he was out-numbered…

Frank followed the sounds to the shared sleeper tent, where Billy and a crew of four others were supposed to be cleaning. Two guys had Billy’s arms, holding him back while he struggled and thrashed like a trapped wild animal between them. A third guy stood, crouched over with his hand on his nose, blood sliding out from between his fingers, eyes wide and bright with fury. The fourth and last hovered nervously by the door, closest to Frank.

“—TAKE YOUR _FUCKING_ HANDS OFF ME YOU UNWASHED FUCKS I WILL CUT YOU I WILL KILL YOU—!”

Frank took it all in in less than a second. He was between the two guys on Billy—Simms and Tanner—a second later, pulling them apart as calmly as he could manage.

“Enough, enough,” he said, taking care to keep his voice steady. Billy didn’t react to the sound of Frank’s voice. It was like he didn’t hear him at all.

The second he was loose, Billy made a break for it. He barely looked at Frank as he pushed past. Frank caught a glance of his expression—wild eyes, pinched lips, bloodless cheeks—and decided to let him go on his own, give him space.

“What the _fuck_ ,” the guy with the bloody nose—Hunt?—sputtered. He straightened from his crouch, blood flecking each exhale. “That little shithead. Look what he did to my fucking face!”

Frank did. The swollen bridge, the blood-choked voice, all of it pointed to a broken nose. Frank was no doctor, but he was something of an expert in that particular field.

“Billy did this?” he asked. Hunt sniffed. He wasn’t looking at Frank. “Why?”

“Jesus, I need to see a medic,” Hunt muttered. “Simms, man, can you help me out? I’m losing a lot of blood here.”

Frank caught Simms’ arm before he could take a step forward. “What happened here?” he asked, his voice more gentle than his grip.

Simms was a young blood, fresh out of boot camp. He looked at Frank the way the people of Pompeii might’ve looked at Vesuvius as it started to rumble. He looked at Tanner, and then at Simms, and then at the floor.

Frank tightened his grip. He didn’t look at Simms but kept his gaze locked on Hunt and ran through what he knew about him.

Hunt, Hunt. Big guy, early twenties, fresh out of JV Football. Former offensive lineman, over-inflated sense of his own importance. Typical college kid. Big guy for his age, almost as big as Frank, and generally friendly.

Maybe a little too friendly. Now Frank remembered. Every guy complained about unmet needs, talked longingly of conquests past, of the pussy they missed. Hunt was louder than most. And sometimes he’d look at Billy when he thought no one else was watching him.

Frank’s jaw flexed. A picture started to form, coloured in with grim prediction. But he needed to hear it from the man himself.

After a long, uncomfortable beat, Simms started to talk.

They were cleaning the tent. Hunt needed help moving a trunk. Billy gave him a hand. Hunt gave him a short—platonic! Perfectly innocent!—pat on the ass in thanks.

And then Billy went ballistic.

“I thought he was trying to kill him,” Simms admitted.

Hunt snorted, spraying a fine red mist onto the back of his hand. “Uptight little shithead prick. You’d think I was trying to rape him. Hasn’t he ever been in a fucking locker room in his gay little life?”

The whole tent filled with the sound of three men holding their breath. Frank looked at Hunt. Hunt swallowed and looked at his feet.

“We’re keeping this quiet,” Frank said when the silence had gone on a little too long. “Anyone asks you what happened, you tell them you fell. That goes for all of you. Clear?”

Hunt gave Frank what he probably thought was an ugly look. Frank sniffed. He’d seen worse on the playground.

When it became obvious that Hunt’s little alpha display wasn’t going to intimidate Frank, his gaze sank.

“Fine,” he said. The others murmured agreement.

Frank wasn’t done. He stepped close, until his chest brushed against Hunt’s. Hunt, of course, wasn’t the kind of guy to back away. Frank had counted on that. It meant Frank could see the way his pupils shrank to black pinpricks in his grey eyes.

“You stay away from Private Russo,” Frank said, so quiet that his lips barely moved. “If I catch you so much as looking at him for too long, I will break more than your nose. Are we clear?”

Hunt looked furious, his jaw working in silence. He sized Frank up and Frank wondered if he might try something. Hunt was bigger than Frank, but he was hurt and Frank…

Well. Hunt would’ve known by then what Frank was capable of. Hunt swallowed, blinked, and nodded again.

Frank told Tanner to take Hunt to the med tent. He stayed behind with Simms and the other guy to finish cleaning.He went back to the mess tent and finished his job there too. He worked efficiently but without obvious rush. Frank had only known Billy for about ten months, but he knew enough to tell when Billy needed space.

It was funny just how quickly the two of them had clicked. Ten months and already Frank knew things about Billy that no one else did. Things he hadn’t even told Frank. His body told a story without the use of his voice to anyone who paid close enough attention. From the very start, Frank had paid very close attention indeed.

Put a gun to his head and he still wouldn’t be able to tell you why. It was like the first time he’d seen Maria. When you knew, you knew. Why waste time thinking about it?

By the time Frank finished and washed up, it’d been almost two hours since he’d last seen Billy. The disruption he’d caused to the rhythm of their little world had smoothed out. The others had finished with their tasks and they had a few hours to kill before lights out. Frank could hear conversation, laughter, the tinny sound of rap music playing from an iphone speaker. Business as usual.

Frank saw Tanner once but he didn’t see Hunt again. Tanner gave him a nod and avoided Frank’s eyes. Frank decided he’d given it enough time. He went looking for Billy.

It didn’t take long. There weren’t many places a man could find a moment of peace to himself. Frank only knew of the one.

He found Billy there, sitting on the ground, his back braced against a crate. He didn’t look up when Frank arrived—making sure to scrape his boots on the ground, his approach obvious—and didn’t say anything when Frank took a seat beside him.

This was ‘their’ spot, Frank supposed; a wedge of space behind some crates, just big enough for the two of them to do what they wanted—needed—to do. Not a lot of space for romance, which had started to bug Frank, a little.

Billy kept up the silent treatment. Frank sniffed, cleared his throat, folded his hands on his stomach and stared up at the sky.

After a while, he said: “I took care of it.”

Frank snuck a look from the corner of his eye. Billy’s expression was peaceful, like he’d fallen asleep with his eyes open. A far cry from the way he’d looked a few hours prior.

Shadows began to slant and stretch. The sky grew darker, shade by shade, with each passing minute. They wouldn’t have forever, Frank knew. Someone would come looking eventually. But Frank would see to it Billy got what he needed.

“Thanks,” Billy said, eventually. Frank nodded. He kept quiet and still, careful as a hunter trying not to spook the prize buck who’d wandered from the trees. He waited.

He didn’t have to wait long. Billy blew out a low breath and let his head fall back against the crate with a muffled thump.

“God,” he said, more sigh than word. “I can’t remember the last time I got worked up like that.”

“You fucked him up real good,” Frank said with a note of pride. Billy’s lips slanted in a smile.

“He was being an asshole,” he said. He rolled his head to the side and looked down at the ground. “I mean. He’s not the first guy. This is the marines, right? I’ve known guys like him, fresh outta JV whatever, filled with that locker room camaraderie crap. Fuck.” He ran one hand down his face and sighed again. “It’s stupid.”

Frank didn’t agree but he kept quiet.

“I don’t really like bein’ touched,” Billy said.

“I know,” Frank said.

Billy looked startled, momentarily wrong-footed, as if he’d been rehearsing this little confession for a while and Frank had gone off-script.

But Frank had known for months, almost as long as he’d known Billy. He’d seen it from the way Billy held himself at the edge of every conversation, every interaction, just an inch outside of arm’s reach. From the way he grew tense and guarded when people got close. The way he stiffened under friendly touches. Skittish as a feral cat.

The way he tensed the first time Frank touched him. Just a friendly, platonic brush of his hand over Billy’s shoulder. Billy reacting like Frank was waving a lit match across his skin. He’d been careful about Billy ever since.

Billy relaxed. “It’s not all the time,” he went on. He cast Frank a sly glance from under his lashes. “Obviously.”

“Obviously,” Frank agreed. Billy had been pliant enough the last time they’d come out this way.

“Just…” Billy licked his lips and gave his head a brief shake. “Guys like Hunt… I saw it, you know? The way he was lookin’ at me. I’ve known guys like him my whole rotten life.” His voice hitched, a change coming over him quickly. His face contorted and he dropped his head into the cradle of his arms before Frank could see him turn red.

Billy was only twenty years old at the time. The scars were still fresh enough to hurt.

Frank knew exactly what kind of man he was. He knew he wasn’t a good one. His only saving grace was that he could be good to the people who mattered to him.

He wanted to find Hunt and break the rest of the bones in his face. He wanted to wrap himself around Billy, tuck him under his chin, keep himself between Billy and the rest of the world.

Frank’s nostrils flared. He rode the feelings out, waited for the urges to pass. They were childish fantasies. The Billy that needed that kind of coddling was long gone, left behind in a past Frank had never known. Billy could look after himself. He needed something else from Frank.

“Can I touch you, Bill?” Frank asked. He wanted to hug him, at least.

Billy’s chest became still, his breathing halted. He gave a quiet, almost inaudible sniff and raised his head. He regarded Frank with eyes black and shiny as polished buttons.

“No,” he said and then he closed the distance between them and kissed Frank hard enough to bruise, knocking their teeth together.

Frank blinked as Billy crawled into his lap, put his hands on Frank’s chest, and dug his fingers into the swell of his pectorals. Billy licked his way between Frank’s pliant, soft lips, knelt down on Frank’s lap, resting on Frank’s swelling erection.

“No. You can’t touch me,” Billy said, each word breathed onto Frank’s spit-slick lips. He trailed his fingers down the bob of Frank’s throat. “You think you can handle that, Frank?”

Frank closed his eyes briefly against a spike of disappointment and—to his surprise—arousal. He loved touching Billy, who kept his skin lotioned and soft, even in the desert. But if this was what Billy needed, then Frank could abide. If it meant Billy would stay with Frank, seated so snugly in his lap, then Frank could play by his rules.

He nodded. Billy kissed him, grabbed both wrists and pinned his hands above his head.

“Stay,” he growled. Frank did.

* * *

 No touching tonight, apparently. Frank lifted his hand just once, just to see, and Billy increased the pressure on Frank’s chest, his heel digging into the front of his ribs. More than a warning; a promise. Frank fell back, obedient.

Billy watched him for a moment, smoke curling past his lips, around his jaw and ears, up to the ceiling where it would fade and mingle with the growing haze. Frank hadn’t bothered to ask if theirs was a smoking room or not. It didn’t occur to him just how stupid they were being—suppose someone sniffed them out and alerted the staff? Even Billy would have a hard time verbally tap dancing his way out of that one.

“You’ve got that look on your face,” Billy said. He tapped his toe against the bulge of Frank’s throat.

Frank swallowed and made himself focus on Billy’s face. “What look?”

Billy looked so good, wreathed in smoke, dressed up, polished and shiny, like an angel who’d come to greet Frank at the end of the world.

Frank blinked hard. Shit. Two puffs and he was already like this?

Billy smiled, as if he could read Frank’s thoughts like they were projected onto the ceiling. “You’ve got that look like you’re thinkin’ too hard. Guess I should’ve known it’d take more than a joint to pull you out of your head.”

“Oh yeah?” Frank managed. It wasn’t his finest work but he was barely paying attention. Billy’s calf was right within reach. Frank wouldn’t even have to move that much. Lift his hand, slip his fingers under the cuff of his slacks, slide up until he could find skin. Frank wanted so badly just to touch.

Billy shook his head, pinched the joint between his lips, and removed his foot from Frank’s chest. “Only two things ever do the trick,” he said as he sank to his knees, straddling Frank’s waist.

Frank could hear his breathing grow deep and rough. A tremor raced down his arms but he kept his hands planted firmly in the carpet. His heart thudded in his chest, through his back, against the floorboards.

Billy gave him a smile like a prize. He plucked the cigarette from his mouth and put it between Frank’s lips. Frank inhaled what was left.

“One is a good fight,” Billy said, drawing his fingers down Frank’s chest, slipping them inside the bulging gap between each fastened button. An easy flick opened the shirt, buttons popping free, one-by-one. “You wanna know what the other one is?”

Billy had a smile like a cartoon fox, Frank thought through the haze streaming out of his ears. All teeth, curling lips, bad promises to anyone stupid or naive enough to follow him down the path and into the woods. He had a smile that could sell pavement to a man plummeting off a skyscraper. He had Frank’s shirt open.

“There,” Billy said softly, satisfied. “That’s better. You looked so uncomfortable before. Not a big fan of these uniforms, are you, Frank?”

Two minutes ago, Frank would’ve agreed. He swallowed and plucked the spent joint from his lips, pinched the smouldering tip between his damp fingers and flicked it away. Buying himself enough time to let his brain catch up.

“I don’t know,” he said as casually as he could manage when it finally did. “I’m startin’ to see the appeal.”

Billy shot him a look from under his lashes, smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “You looked so fuckin’ stiff before,” he said as he traced his fingers over Frank’s bared chest. “Surrounded by your little admirers, lookin’ like you wanted to throw up the white flag and beg for mercy.” He tapped his gloved fingers against the dip of Frank’s throat. “It wouldn’t have worked, by the way. Those bitches would’ve eaten you alive. Can’t say I’d blame ‘em.” He smiled again, the tip of his pink tongue darting over his top lip. Frank tracked the movement with his gaze, helpless to do anything else.

He could try. “You’re lookin’ a little warm, Bill,” he said. Billy raised an eyebrow. “Maybe you should shed a few layers.”

“I thought you liked my uniform,” Billy said.

“I do,” Frank said, meaning it. “But I’d hate to think you’re feelin’ uncomfortable on my behalf.”

Billy tipped his head back and laughed, chest shaking and throat bared. Frank’s teeth clicked together, his fingers twitching in the carpet.

“You and your fuckin’ lines. It’s a miracle you ever get laid,” Billy said, eyes gleaming. “I can’t believe you ever talked some poor woman into marrying you.”

It was like static, like white noise. Frank didn’t even hear that last sentence. All he could think of was Billy’s delicate throat, his clever tongue, his long, fine-boned fingers. Soft skin, silky hair, the sharp scent of his sweat mingling with his cologne. Billy was the only man Frank knew who took such meticulous care of himself. The dumb, animal part of Frank thought of it like an offering, something just for him.

“You know, one of those ladies you were so afraid I’d tempt and ruin, she told me a little story. She and her husband like to have a little fun with his uniform. For her birthday one year, he surprised her when she got home. She found him in their bedroom, in the dress blue and whites. He had music playing.” Billy sat back, settling on Frank’s hips, brushing the bulge in Frank’s pants. “Told her to sit down on the edge of the bed. Gave her a little show.” He grinned, sharp and curved as the edge of a blade. Frank’s mouth dried out.

“Come to think of it, I _am_ feelin’ a little warm,” Billy said as he drew one finger under the stiff collar of his jacket, giving it a tug.

Frank shifted under him, pushed himself up onto his elbows. Billy took the tip of his glove between his teeth, lips curling back to show off the sharp edge of his incisor, one dark eye gleaming with reflected yellow light, as he pulled it off slowly.

Frank’s body trembled with unspent tension. This was evil. This was exactly what he wanted but it was evil, too. He watched, helpless and hungry, as Billy unfastened each shiny button of his jacket, revealing the long line of his neck at last.

“Shame there’s no music,” Billy mumbled as he arched his back, hips swaying like he could hear something anyway. Those long, clever fingers deftly worked each button open, showing off the desert-touched skin of his shoulders, his chest. His head tipped back, neck curved to the ceiling. Frank could see the flicker of his pulse under his jaw, close enough to bite.

Billy kept his balance even as he bent backwards, graceful as a dancer. He ran his now-bare hands down his chest, shirttails tickling Frank’s legs. One hand caught on his nipple, rolling the brown nub between his fingers until it was long and stiff. His other hand dipped down to the flat expanse of his pelvis, tracing down the trail of dark hair that disappeared under the waistband of his slacks, fingers popping the button fly open, pushing the fabric apart. He ground his ass back into the hard line of Frank’s dick and moaned softly.

Frank was either going to burst into flames or rip his own skin off. His jaw creaked.

“Billy,” he said, voice ground down to a growl.

“Yeah?” Billy asked, casual and breathless. He was bent backwards, one hand inside his slacks, stroking himself slowly.

Frank had spent his last remaining brain cells on that bout of coherency. All he could manage now was a growl, the animal under his skin growing restless. Always lured to the surface by Billy’s pull.

Billy laughed, still breathless. Frank watched the way it moved his chest. He licked his lips.

“What is it, Frankie? Can you use your words for me?” Billy sat up.

Frank stared back at him, feeling that curious blend of helpless and dangerous that only Billy could bring out in him, feeling his restraint grow thin and brittle. Another tremor worked its way up his spine.

Billy smiled at him, eyes half-lidded, black and liquid bright. He leaned forward, his hand sliding up from his chest to curve around his own throat.

“You want to touch me, don’t you?” he asked. Frank nodded, his gaze locked on the line of Billy’s neck. “Like this?” Billy’s fingers tightened and he gasped, eyelashes fluttering, lips parted and wet and inches, just inches, from Frank’s own.

“Would you touch me even though I said you couldn’t?” Billy asked. Frank felt a prickle on the back of his neck. Billy’s tone was treacle-sweet, but Frank could hear the hidden needle in his words.

Billy leaned forward, his forehead nearly touching Frank’s. Frank leaned back, as if repelled, keeping just the barest inch of air between them.

“You’d touch me, even though you’re being so good for me right now?” he asked. “Is that what you want, Frank?”

It wouldn’t take much. There was an inch between them, maybe less. Frank would barely have to lift his head to take Billy’s lips. His body thrummed with that tension, with the desire to take Billy, reverse their positions, push his legs open, feel them curl around his waist, fuck him so hard he sobbed from it, until they were both burned up from the friction.

Billy must’ve seen it. Must’ve known what he was doing to Frank. He never missed a trick.

Frank whimpered. He dug his fingers into the carpet, let his head fall back. Submission.

“Poor Frankie,” Billy whispered. He kissed him.

Frank knew this game, too. He kissed back as much as he was allowed, scraping his teeth over Billy’s lower lip, feeling the scratch of his freshly trimmed beard against his cheek and chin. He wanted to run his hands through Billy’s soft hair, feel it spill like ink between his fingers.

Steady, he reminded himself as he brushed his tongue against Billy’s. Easy. This was Billy’s game, his rules. Frank wasn’t a good man in a lot of respects, but he could be good to the people who earned it from him.

Billy inhaled sharply and pulled back, dog tags clinking. Frank followed him a half-inch before he remembered himself and sank, reluctantly, back.

Frank would be good, even if it killed him by inches. Billy ran his hands down Frank’s chest, nails digging into soft skin. Frank arched into the touch, desperate for the feel of Billy’s skin, to be touched, even if he couldn’t touch.

The haze had thinned but Frank could still taste smoke with every inhale. Billy hummed under his breath, his hips and stomach swaying to some rhythm only he could hear. He bent down and licked a quick stripe up Frank’s chest, pulling a gasp from Frank. His fingers dug into Frank’s pectorals, his face nuzzling at the juncture of Frank’s neck and shoulders, breath warm against the chain of his dog tags. He kissed and nibbled at sensitive skin, mirroring the things Frank had taken such care and pleasure in doing to him.

Frank turned his head to the side, his mouth dropping open with a quiet gasp as Billy’s found a particular spot under his jaw. Frank wondered if Billy was being careful or if he was looking to leave marks. He didn’t know how he might explain the sight of a hickey under his jaw. Then stopped caring. Frank had enough problems on his plate.

Billy was every single one of them. He took Frank’s earlobe into his mouth. Frank breathed out hard and jerked his hips into the soft, maddening weight on his lap.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” he ground out. “Are you gonna take your pants off or are you gonna slobber on me all night?”

Billy bit his soft skin, eliciting another gasp from Frank. “How dare you talk to me like that,” he said. “I’m a lieutenant, I’ll have you know.”

“Uh huh, I do know. I was at your wetting-down, genius,” Frank said. “I held your hair while you threw up on my shoes.”

Billy sniffed. “I don’t remember that. That doesn’t sound like me.” He turned his head, lips brushing against Frank’s cheek as he spoke. “Must’ve been someone else.”

Frank laughed. “Couldn’t be. You think I’d let just anyone throw up on me?” Billy huffed. Frank turned his head, catching the corner of Billy’s lips. It felt like a cheat, but a minor infraction, one he felt would be allowed.

Billy didn’t pull away; a victory. Frank’s fingers itched to push their way through Billy’s hair, to cup the back of his neck. He dug them into the carpet pile.

Billy pulled back again, breaking them apart, breathing in like a man who’d just woken up from a deep sleep. He blinked at Frank, ran his tongue across his bottom lip, as if he could taste Frank there.

Frank pushed himself back up on his elbows, chasing the wet shine of Billy’s lips. He was an inch away when Billy tipped his head back, chin knocking into Frank’s. He quirked one eyebrow. Frank sighed and fell back.

This was Billy’s game, sure. But that didn’t mean Frank couldn’t play.

“Please, Billy. _Lieutenant_ Russo,” Frank said. He bit back a smirk as Billy’s lips parted. “I’m concerned about your comfort and safety, sir. _Please_ take your pants off for me. Put my mind at ease. I’d hate to think of you all hot and bothered under those layers.”

Billy was too distracted, gaze locked on Frank’s lips, to notice when Frank raised his hand from the ground. He took the hem of Billy’s pants between his thumb and forefinger and gave it a little tug.

Billy gave a small jerk, blinking. He narrowed his eyes at Frank. “You got some nerve, Private Castle,” he growled.

Frank grinned. It’d been years since he wore the private’s chevron on his sleeve and he’d never really enjoyed the title—but somehow, in Billy’s purring voice, it wasn’t so bad.

“Can’t help it,” Frank said with a bashful smile. “I know I got a temper. I’m impulsive. Isn’t that why you pulled me into your office?” he asked.

Billy’s lips twitched even as he squinted at Frank. He raked his fingers down Frank’s chest. “Yeah. Sure.That’s right, Castle. You’ve got no discipline. I mean, look at the state you’re in.” He flicked one of Frank’s nipples. “Out of uniform in front of a superior. Shameful.”

Frank wondered if it was worth pointing out that it’d been Billy who pulled his shirt open. Probably not.

“I had to take it off, sir. I was so warm. I don't like to suffer with no cause behind it. I know you don’t either. I’m just tryin’ to be considerate of you. Sir.” He sat up, tugging on the hem of Billy’s trousers once again, before sliding his hand up his calf to grip his clothed thigh.

Billy chewed on his lower lip, regarding Frank with open suspicion as he reached out and, taking special care not to touch Billy’s bare skin, plucked his dog tags from his chest. He wound the chain around his finger, pulling Billy closer by a spare inch, until their lips were separated by a hair’s breadth, Frank could feel Billy’s skin brush against his chest with each inhale.

“Sit back,” Billy said.

Frank did, the tags falling back against Billy’s chest with a click of metal.

“Get your hand off me.” Billy snapped off the order with ease and without heat, like a man used to command.

Frank gave Billy’s thigh one last squeeze before he did that too.

The bridge of Billy’s nose twitched with his next, long inhale. He stood up with more grace than Frank would’ve suspected he was capable of, giving the amount of quasi-illegal substances he’d ingested all night. Frank’s blood buzzed pleasantly with his high, a soft fuzziness behind his eyes.

Billy put his foot back on Frank’s chest, right under his chin. He gave the underside of his jaw a light tap. “You can help with these,” he said.

Frank didn’t need to be told twice. Eager to be good, he unlaced Billy’s shoes. Frank pulled it off, following it with the black sock. He placed a single kiss over the arch of Billy’s foot. Billy stepped back, regained his balance after a small wobble, and swung his other foot for Frank’s attention.

Once Frank had repeated the action and Billy was divested of both shoes, he stepped back—stumbling a half-step. He shot Frank a look. Frank bit his lip.

“You didn’t see that,” Billy said.

Frank looked back, expression blank. “See what? Sir,” he added.

“You know, I’m beginnin’ to understand why strippers wear tear-away clothes,” Billy grumbled as he slid his pants down his hips.

“You want me to tear your pants off, I will,” Frank said. “Just say the word.”

Billy shot him another look. “You rip these and I’ll cut your dick off,” he said.

“No, you wouldn’t,” Frank said.

“Fuck you, of course I fuckin’ would.”

“You like my dick,” Frank said, palming it as he spoke. He gave himself a long, lazy stroke, feeling relief slide through him like a wave. There was nothing in the rules against this. Billy’d left him wound up.

“I’ll get it stuffed and keep it in a drawer,” Billy said with a sneer, his eyes locked on the red tip of Frank’s dick as it disappeared into his fist. “Like a memento. Use it when I’m bored.”

Frank laughed. He lifted his other arm. “C’mere, Bill,” he said. “Come here to me.”

Billy sniffed again and sank back down onto his knees, straddling Frank’s hips once more. Warmth spread from each point of contact between them, the feeling like sinking into a warm bath. Without looking away from Frank’s face, Billy reached behind himself and grabbed Frank’s wrist, stilling his hand.

“You come before I do and you’ll never see me naked again, Private Castle,” he said.

Oh right, they were still playing. Frank resisted the smile pulling at the corner of his lips. “Yessir,” he said. He held his hand up in surrender.

“Both hands above your head,” Billy said.

Frank sighed but did as he was told. “Still no touching, huh?”

Billy leaned over Frank, his tags clinking, drawing his hands up Frank’s biceps to his wrists, holding him down, his face inches from Frank’s. He smiled.

“Nope,” he said. “How else are you supposed to learn discipline? Hm? But don’t worry.” He cupped the side of Frank’s face, dragged his thumb across Frank’s lower lip. Frank’s tongue darted out to follow it. “You’re gonna get what you need. I’ll take care of you, private.”

* * *

The wetting-down. Frank hadn’t thought about it in a while and for good reason. There were parts of that night he carefully stored in the attic of his mind, sealed away and left to collect dust. Less than a year ago, Frank took care of Billy.

It was the drunkest Frank had ever seen Billy get. Possibly the drunkest anyone had seen Billy get. Billy had always taken care to stay the most sober guy in the room, even when someone else was footing the bar bill.

He was the kind of guy who nursed a single lager all night. He snuck water between rounds, claimed it was vodka when anyone tried to give him shit for it. Frank had even caught him tossing shots out into potted plants or just dumping them on the floor if the bar was filthy and dark enough. In the six years he’d lived with Billy in his front pocket, Frank could count on one hand the number of times he’d seen Billy get actually drunk.

He supposed it was a control thing. A lot of things with Billy were about control. Or maybe it was the meth-head mother thing. Billy must’ve known he had a genetic predisposition for addiction.

Tonight was different. The promotion to lieutenant was a welcome piece of news, especially after Frank had beaten him to those silver bars last year. Billy’d been a little distant, a little off since then. He never liked calling Frank ‘sir’.

Now he wouldn’t have to. Frank might’ve been more relieved than Billy.

They were stationed in Yongsan Garrison, Seoul. A brief reprieve to watch over the fuck-ups before they were sent back to Iraq. Billy had chosen a shitty pub off-base, in a neighbourhood called Itaewon. Curfiew’d been lifted again after everyone stayed on their best behaviour for a few months, but Frank had a feeling it’d be reinstated after tonight.

Billy wasn’t that popular, although he was known by his pretty face and by the reputation that followed him around from post to post. People knew he had close to two hundred confirmed kills; an impressive count for anyone, but especially for a kid his age. Mostly, people knew him as Frank Castle’s shadow.

A lot of people came out for his wetting-down anyway. No respectable marine would miss the chance to get drunk on someone else’s dime.

Billy’d done more shots in the last two hours than Frank had seen him take in the six years they’d known each other, to the delight of the other marines. Billy became more popular with each ounce of tequila he swallowed.

When Billy disengaged from the group of rowdy assholes listening to DeSouza recounting tales of Frank Castle, Delinquent Recruit, Frank didn’t even hesitate. He followed, stumbling only a little when he heard DeSouza get to the part where Frank knocked the teeth out of some smart mouth trust fund brat, earning himself a line of stitches and a month of latrine duty. A slap on the wrist. The major had liked Frank and disliked the guy he hit.

Frank was drunk. He usually got drunk at these things; it was really the only time he could. Once he spotted just how hard Billy intended to go tonight, however, he’d slowed down.

He found Billy in a back alley, crouched on the ground with his back against a grime-streaked brick wall, one hand cradling his head, his eyes shut and mouth open. He looked pale under his beard. Sick. Sweat beaded on his forehead.

Frank made noise as he approached, crunching broken glass and gravel under his boots.

“Hey, Bill,” he said. He eyed the ground for puddles of vomit but found none. “Feelin’ alright?”

Billy grunted without opening his eyes.

Frank sat down beside him. “Havin’ fun?” he asked.

“Think so,” Billy said. “Before, anyway. Now ‘m feelin’ a little sick.”

“Well, if you gotta yak, just do it,” Frank said. “Let it out. You’ll feel better. Now, some people, they can throw up and then rally. They can wash their mouth out with beer and a whiskey chaser and go just as hard for the rest of the night.”

“Like you?” Billy opened his eyes at last, fixed Frank with a lopsided smile.

Frank laughed, his face warming. “Shit. Not for a long time. That’s a young man’s game.” He nudged Billy.

Billy swayed with the movement, still smirking. “I can’t believe the kind of shit you used t’get into. When’d you get so boring?”

“When I had my kids,” Frank said without hesitation. “I was never gonna be the kind of dad who went out and got loaded every night. Come home too late to kiss his kids goodnight? Nah. That was never gonna be me.”

“Nah,” Billy agreed quietly. He looked down at the ground, at a pile of broken glass, jagged green edges bright under the fluorescent safety light above the back door. “You’re just the kinda dad who goes away for war.”

Frank blinked.

“But it’s gettin’ harder, ain’t it,” Billy went on. “Goin’ home, comin’ back, goin’ home, comin’ back. Over and over. One foot in the land of the living and one in the dead. I know you an’ Maria fight about it.”

Frank’s went cold, a fire suddenly extinguished. “You do, do you,” he said, a bite of warning in his words.

Billy either didn’t hear or didn’t care. He went on. “Sooner or later she’s gonna make you pick. You know that, right? She’s not gonna let you get to major.” He sniffed and pushed his hand through his hair, fingers gripping the long strands. “You know, it’s really gonna fuck me up when you leave us.”

Frank was too drunk for this. He ran his hand down his face and sighed. “What are you talkin’ about, Bill? I’m not goin’ anywhere yet.”

“You will,” Billy said. He jiggled his knee, tapped his heel against the ground. “Y’know, hearin’ DeSouza talk about you, the way you used to be. The guy who got into fist fights and stole bottles from the behind the bar. The guy you were before Maria and the kids…”

“I was a shithead,” Frank said flatly.

Billy shook his head. He tugged on his long fingers, cracking them one by one, his body humming with the kind of nervous energy Frank only saw in him before a fight. “I keep thinkin’ ‘bout how things’d be different if I’d met you back then. Before you met her.”

Frank turned away, burned by whatever it was he didn’t want to see in Billy’s expression. He ran the flat of his palm over his buzzed skull, trying to calm himself. He tried to think of the right thing to say, tried to batter his damaged and alcohol-fuzzed brain cells into doing some decent work.

He licked his chapped lips. “Billy, you know…” he tried. “You’ll always be family.”

“Oh, _fuck you_.” Billy surged upwards, stumbling a few steps on unsteady legs. He glared at Frank like Frank had pushed him. Frank stood up after him.

“You know how many times I’ve heard that line? Gettin’ sent from one foster home after another. ‘You’ll always be family’ and then never adopt me. Never even _try_. Fuck you for thinkin’ I’d fall for it now. You think that’s what I want?” He stepped into Frank’s space, glaring down at him with his chin jutting out, looking like he was ready for Frank to take a swing. “Uncle fucking Billy? Invite me over for holidays, feed me scraps at your wife’s fuckin’ table?” His eyes brimmed, shining even under his thick lashes, water catching the light. “You think I wanna be your fucking _brother_?” His voice cracked.

Frank glanced to the mouth of the alley, to the closed door where he could hear music thumping away. “Bill, keep it down.” He reached for him but Billy shoved him hard in the chest, his face red, his expression twisted.

“Fuck you. _Fuck_ you, Frank Castle.” Billy shoved him again. “I hope you fuckin’ choke. I hope you fuckin’ _rot_ in that fuckin’ marriage. I hope your dick shrivels and falls the fuck off. I hope… I… I…”

The colour drained from Billy’s face. He blinked a few times and Frank recognized the expression on his face a moment too late.

Billy bent over and retched. He was close enough that it hit Frank’s shoes, splashed up his legs.

Frank reached out and steadied Billy. Billy gasped, spat, and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. He looked up at Frank, his eyes glazed and his cheeks wet.

“You’re an asshole,” he wheezed before doubling over and emptying the remains of his stomach over Frank’s legs.

Frank closed his eyes at the sudden, unpleasant warmth from his knees down to his heels. He patted Billy on the back of his neck, held his hair with one fist until his chest stopped spasming.

“C’mon, Bill,” he said, slinging one of Billy’s arms over his shoulders. “I think you’ve had enough tonight.”

“I ain’t gonna fuckin’ beg,” Billy mumbled as Frank half-dragged him from the alley. “People leave. S’what they do. Nobody wants me f’r keeps. Don’t need ‘em. Don’t need _you_. When you go… I ain’t gonna fuckin’ beg. I never beg. Didn’t ev’n beg for my ma when she… when she...” He sniffed.

Frank hushed him. “I ain’t goin’ anywhere, Bill. C’mon, let’s get you home. You’ll feel better in the morning.”

In fact, Billy did look better the next morning. Better than he had any right looking after drinking eight shots in two hours the night before. He looked groomed and clean, a hint of colour in his cheeks.

“You look like shit,” Billy said when Frank slid into the seat beside him, his own tray laden with eggs, toast, and as much bacon as he could get after waking up late, which wasn’t much.

Frank grunted in response and rubbed his aching head. He spared a longing glance to the pile of untouched bacon on Billy’s plate.

“So, what happened last night?” Billy asked casually as Frank started shovelling eggs into his mouth. “I don’t remember anything after the tequila.”

“Dude, you drank like four shots of tequila,” a helpful marine—Martinez—supplied. “I didn’t think a skinny guy like you could put so many away like that.”

Billy’s lips twisted. “ _Tequila_ ,” he said witheringly. “I cannot believe you let me drink tequila.” He snagged a triangle of toast from Frank’s plate.

“I’m not your keeper,” Frank snapped, curling protectively around his tray. Billy rolled his eyes.

“Jesus, someone’s on his period,” he said. “I guess this is what happens when you old-timers get wasted.”

“Yeah, take a good look, kid,” Frank said, jabbing his fork into a breakfast link. “This is your future. And to answer your question, you threw up like a sorority girl last night.”

“That explains the taste in my mouth,” Billy said, voice muffled by toast. “I didn’t do anything else, did I?”

“You kept trying to sing,” Martinez said, ever helpful.

“You were pretty good,” Frank said. Billy scowled, face turning bright red.

“Yeah. It was like being at American Idol,” Martinez said with a leer. “Russo’s got a pretty boy voice to go with his pretty boy face.”

“Shut the fuck up.” Billy glanced at Frank while Martinez laughed. “That’s all?” he asked.

Frank turned his attention back to his breakfast. He drank a mouthful of scalding black coffee before replying. “That’s all.”

“I guess that was enough,” Billy muttered, his shoulders relaxing. “This is why I don’t drink. I always do stupid shit when I drink.” He pushed the rest of his bacon onto Frank’s plate.

* * *

Frank didn’t think he’d ever get tired of watching Billy ride him. Especially when Billy was in one of his moods. He stretched out, one hand curled around his neck, his head flung back, his mouth open, gasping as he worked himself up and down Frank’s cock. Posing for Frank. Putting on a show. If Frank thought he could move without disturbing Billy, he would’ve gone for his phone.

He did the best he could with his eyes instead, drinking in the sight of Billy, committing every detail to memory. The sensation of Billy clenching down on him as he found just the right angle, the vibration of his moan, the light a dull gleam on the sweat-slick skin of his chest, his stomach. He ground down on Frank, finding his sweet spot, using Frank’s dick like it was a toy he’d bought just for himself.

Frank licked the taste of salt from his lips. He would’ve killed a man for the chance to touch Billy at that moment.

“Billy,” he groaned.

One corner of Billy’s lips lifted in a smile. “Somethin’ I can help you with, private?” he asked, breath hitching as he slid back down Frank’s length.

“Please.” Frank lifted his hips from the ground, tried to bury himself deeper inside Billy. “Please.” The sound as if it’d been punched out of him. “Please let me touch you. Please. I’m dyin’.”

Billy wheezed a soft laugh, one hand curling around the base of his throat. “You’re bein’ dramatic.”

“You’re fuckin’ killin’ me here.” Frank gave a hard thrust, knocking Billy off-rhythm. Billy shot him a glare, planted his knees onto the ground and forced himself back down hard and fast enough to make them both groan.

He sat for a moment, panting, giving a small swivel of his hips to get Frank an extra inch, nestling deep inside. He flicked a loose strand from his face and gave Frank a grin, lips pulled back to show off his canines.

“You stay,” he said. “You just stay there, like you are. You aren’t gonna crack on me. Are you, Frankie?”

 _Frankie_ again, not Castle. The name like a drop of warm honey from Billy’s lips, sweet enough that Frank could taste it. He closed his eyes, tension shuddering through him.

“Nah,” Billy said. He started moving again, slow at the start, but building towards his earlier pace. “Not my Frank. My Frank’s too good for that.”

Frank felt like he was floating. With his eyes closed, he could focus on the sensation of Billy. The warm weight of him on his lap, the slide of his skin on Frank’s hips and thighs, the burning core of him, tight as a vice, keeping Frank steady as the heat built inside of him.

Billy’s voice unrolled across the moment, in the darkness behind Frank’s eyes, soft and smooth as velvet. “My Frankie’s not like those other assholes. He knows to behave himself. Knows to do what he’s told even when it hurts. Even when he wants so _bad_ to take and take. Even though he’s as greedy as the rest of them. He won’t—won’t ever hurt _me_.”

Never. He’d sooner cut his own heart out.

“Frank. Hey, Frank. Look at me.”

Frank opened his eyes. Billy stared down at him, brows furrowed, breath puffing past his parted lips, face flushed, hair falling past his ears and into his face, into his shining eyes. Light gleamed on their black surface, brighter than usual. Brimming.

Something already broken splintered in Frank’s chest at the sight, jagged edges rubbing together to create new breaks, to create something that could never be put back together.

Without thinking, he reached up and cupped Billy’s face, thumb sliding across the edge of his cheek. Billy looked at him, some unnamed hunger lurking behind his eyes. A wild thing looking for shelter.

“You’re beautiful,” Frank whispered. It was the only thing he could think to say.

Billy ground down against Frank. He grabbed his hand and turned his head, gasping into Frank’s palm as he finally came. Frank felt something damp against his fingers. He said nothing.

The game was over and Frank knew it. He cleaned them up and carried Billy to their conjoined bed.

“You broke the rule,” Billy grumbled as Frank settled beside him.

“Which rule?” Frank asked through a yawn. A slight haze hung over them like a ghost in a low-budget horror movie. They should probably crack a window or something.

Billy flicked his nose. “I said no touching.”

“Yeah, well.” Frank stretched until he heard something in his spine crack and yawned again. The only window was on the other side of the small room but it might as well’ve been in China. If someone broke in right then and put a gun to Frank’s head, he still didn’t think he could’ve gotten up.

Billy grumbled something else, too low for Frank to hear, which he decided not to let bother him. He rolled over, putting his back to Frank.

It occurred to Frank that they’d pushed the beds together for the chance to fuck on a proper mattress (or as close as they could get to one, anyway). They’d spent their chance on the floor instead, which felt like a waste. Frank looked at the back of Billy’s neck, feeling thoughtful.

The game was over now. And they had a nice, big bed. Frank had fallen asleep to the sound of Billy’s breathing more times than he could count, but there’d always been a couple feet between them.

Maybe Frank had wasted one shot. Didn’t mean he had to waste them all.

He rolled over and threw his arm around Billy’s waist.

Billy stiffened. “What the fuck—?”

Frank nuzzled the back of Billy’s neck. “Relax. You’re worse than a cat,” he said.

“What the fuck does that mean?”

“Just go to sleep,” Frank mumbled, arm tightening around Billy.

Billy didn’t respond. He felt stiff as stone in Frank’s arms. Frank could hear his breath whistling, soft and quick, through his nose. Frank started to wonder if maybe he’d misjudged the situation when finally, slowly, Billy relaxed.

Frank fell asleep listening to Billy breathe.

**Author's Note:**

> A 'wetting-down' is a real thing. According to wikipedia: "The wetting-down celebration is always paid for and hosted by the newly promoted officer, who invites his or her friends, which usually include several officers of the same rank at which he or she has most recently served. It is customary for the officer to spend the difference between their pay at their old rank and their pay at the new rank on the bar tab for their guests." 
> 
> It's also apparently the title of an episode of a program called 'Major Dad' which, honestly, should've been this fic's subtitle.
> 
> Itaewon is a real place, btw. It's filthy.
> 
> come and get sad with me about billy russo on my tumblr: nothingbutchaff.tumblr.com


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